


as you mean to go on

by bog gremlin (tomatocages)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Meetings, Gay Disaster Shiro (Voltron), Gen, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Teacher Shiro (Voltron), meet awkward
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:47:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23071924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomatocages/pseuds/bog%20gremlin
Summary: Shiro, a special-ed teacher who loves reading obituaries, has a mild bicycle accident. He's rescued by a dog walker with first aid training. (The dog-walker is Keith).Or, “I had a bike accident and dislocated my shoulder, you were passing by and knew first aid. Are we dating now?"
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 148
Collections: Shiro Birthday Exchange 2020





	as you mean to go on

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BossToaster (ChaoticReactions)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChaoticReactions/gifts).



> Pinch-hit for VLD Exchange and stellar giftee BossToaster, who didn’t mind AUs and wanted whump, “so long as everyone gets home in the end.” I hope this fits the bill. 
> 
> Happy belated Shiro’s Birthday!

In the time it took him to flip over his bicycle’s handlebars and crash onto the sloped gravel drive of the local health food co-op, Shiro decided that few things in life were more embarrassing than sustaining an injury in front of witnesses.

It was a stupidly nice day, late in the afternoon and closing in on the end of business hours, and he had chosen to bike to the store for his standard order of cheap spices, rice, and those fancy heirloom beans he couldn’t bring himself to trim out of the budget. It was so nice out, in fact, that the sidewalks and abutting street were occluded with pedestrians out browsing an enormous yard sale taking place across from the parking lot as it made a hopefully-not-lasting impression on Shiro’s right cheekbone. 

Later, Shiro would wonder what had caused the flip; he wasn’t an idiot, was, in fact, one of those mildly annoying cyclists _sans_ road club spandex, and he was familiar with the terrain. 

(What he did not know was that the sloping drive of the co-op parking lot was rather steeper than it had been the spring previous. Snow removal and loose gravel being something of a match made in hell, the angle of ascent now provided much less traction. In a few more weeks, the mother of a child with cerebral palsy and the need to use a walker would present the case to city council, and, failing to get any meaningful response, would escalate the whole inaccessible mess to the mercy of the courts. But: none of that will have anything to do with Shiro.) 

The first thing Shiro heard, after the adrenalin rush cleared and he could bear to open his eyes, was a low, reassuring voice asking if he was all right. The voice belonged to a man who was so pretty that Shiro wished his life really _was_ like Harry Potter so he could hide under an invisibility cloak. 

“Oh god,” Shiro said. “I’m so sorry.”

There was a pause, and then the someone laid a hand gently on Shiro’s hip, presumably to help roll Shiro off of his side. “Why are you apologizing to me? Did — did you hit your head? I’m first aid certified —” 

“No,” Shiro said, and met his would-be rescuer’s gaze. “I’m fine. It just hurts more when someone’s nice to me.”

“Oh, you’re one of those,” said the man. He was accompanied by a dog slightly larger than should have been allowed, except for its impeccable manners. “Well, do me a favor and let me help you stand up. I think your bike’s fine, but _you_ might need to go into the shop.”

“Please don’t make me go to the clinic,” Shiro whined. “I’m a special education teacher, you don’t want to know what my insurance co-pay is.”

HIs response wasn’t the finest eyeroll Shiro had ever seen — he was a veteran of the public school system and thus something of a connoisseur — but it was emphatic. “Well,” he said. “Why don’t we get you vertical and we can go from there.”

In a desperate bid to regain his dignity, Shiro attempted to introduce himself: “I’m ShirOWowowow — !” 

“Keith,” said Keith, apologetically; he had grabbed hold of Shiro’s outstretched arm as Shiro hauled himself upright. “I, uh, think you’ve dislocated your shoulder.” 

Shiro didn’t snap at Keith for stating the obvious, but it was a near thing. He did cuss, loudly and with enthusiasm, when Keith reset the offending shoulder without warming. 

“What the _actual_ , mother-loving _fuck_ , you — oh, thank you. Ow.”

“Thought you were a teacher,” Keith said. He rubbed Shiro’s back a few times, his palm warm and steady through the thin, washed-out fabric of Shiro’s disgusting tank top. “Aren’t you supposed to set an example?”

“Public school,” Shiro wheezed. 

“ _I_ went to public school,” Keith said. He sounded mildly offended, which Shiro supposed was fair: Shiro had mostly learned how to cuss from _administrators_ , not students. He kept the one hand on Shiro’s back and didn’t protest the way Shiro slumped into the touch, though he fished around in the fanny pack strapped diagonally across his chest and retrieved a packet of hand wipes. 

Before Shiro really noticed, Keaith had cleaned the gravel out of Shiro’s cheek, swabbed blood from the scrapes, and loaded Shiro’s grocery backpack onto his own shoulders. He stepped away from Shiro, then hoisted up Shiro’s bicycle and handed over the dog’s leash. “Trade you,” he said, and started wheeling the bike onto the sidewalk. “Kosmo, assist! — Which way is home?”

***

Shiro lived in a medium-nice apartment block about six miles from downtown. It was a long walk and he almost enjoyed it; his shoulder throbbed and twinged, and his face hurt, but the company was good. Keith had a quiet sense of humor, very dry around the edges, and Shiro found himself talking more to fill in the gaps: about his favorite obituary from the last week’s local paper; about the latest purple heirloom bean he’d bought from the co-op, even if it would lose its color once it was cooked; about how he wanted to get certified in yoga for children because his class got such a kick out of learning how to touch their chubby toes.

After a few blocks of this, Keith started talking back. He didn’t just walk the big dog that, Shiro thought, was leading Shiro more than the other way around; Keith was studying for his EMT certification and working weekends at the local paint-your-own pottery place. 

“How’s that working out?”

“Well, I have a lot of mugs. I might make one for my mom.”

Keith went quiet again when they arrived at Shiro’s apartment, and after much prodding, revealed that he lived two floors below. 

“I didn’t think we could have pets here,” Shiro said. He’d never heard anything sounding like a dog, let alone a dog the size of a therapy pony. 

“Ah,” Keith said. “Well. He’s certified.” 

Shiro shut up.

Keith stayed the night, even though they’d just met. He disappeared briefly to feed the hulking dog, and when he returned, he dosed Shiro with NSAIDs and cooked something that wasn’t Shiro’s usual summer staple of rice from the rice cooker and heirloom beans from the pressure cooker. 

“Oh my god, I love you,” Shiro told him, half out of reflex. Keith had done something fascinating with a forgotten bag of lentils, a can of coconut milk, and some sweet potatoes Shiro had purchased in a fit of misplaced optimism. It was the most complete meal Shiro had eaten in the weeks separating him from the year-end teacher’s potluck.

Keith, halfway through chopping a bunch of cilantro that Shiro wasn’t certain had ever been inside his own kitchen, paused for a moment, knife hovering in the air. After a beat, he responded politely: “thank you,” he said. “Would you...like cilantro on your lentils?”

Shiro took pity and didn’t call attention to it. If he had, he would have explained that when one spent the bulk of one’s professional life in the presence of small, delightful children with Down syndrome, one tended to talk in absolutes. Keith was probably well-versed in that kind of positivism. 

“Thank you,” Shiro said. “I would like cilantro on my lentils.”

After he was fed and bandaged and herded into bed, Shiro lay awake in the dim light of his bedroom; the sun hadn’t set all the way, and the room was cast in deep shadows and lines of apricot light that slanted heavily through the blinds. Keith was in the other room, sitting on the floor against Shiro’s futon-slash-sofa, Kosmo pressed huge and silent against him. Shiro had told him the dog was welcome on the furniture, but that was against some invisible set of rules.

Before he had banished Shiro to sleep, Keith had washed the dishes — even though he had cooked! — and produced a library paperback. “I’m catching up on the classics,” Keith had said. “I don’t think you have a concussion, but I’ll hang out just in case.”

Shiro wondered if Keith would still be in the living room in the morning. 

He wondered about it until he fell asleep, where he dreamed about adopting a cat and then visiting Mars.

Morning arrived (like a seagull: loud and a little obnoxious and demanding breakfast), and Keith knocked on the door to Shiro’s room to inform him that the coffee was ready. 

Despite his throbbing shoulder and sore cheek, Shiro thought that, all things considered, it was shaping up to be a wonderful day. 

**Author's Note:**

> Naturally, they fall in love and it's wonderful. Shiro finally has someone to take care of him so he doesn't burn out, and Keith has someone to take care of. 
> 
> Also:
> 
> Shiro’s bike accident is inspired by my own real life experience. I was assisted by a passing EMT, but did not realize my shoulder was dislocated until late in the next day. Fun times, would not recommend. 
> 
> Kosmo is a certified service animal trained to help people living with autism or a sensory processing disorder. He's very calm and helps Keith establish routines and boundaries. 
> 
> I'm extremely uninteresting [on twitter](https://twitter.com/ohheck11).


End file.
